Noise and Confusion
by carryon-vs
Summary: Episode 1.03. While recouping at Bobby’s Dean tries to seek out a way to pull Sam from his slump. After Dean is attacked in his nightmares, he and Sam must use an unusual new ability to hunt a creature which only appears in dreams.
1. Chapter 1

Noise and Confusion

Written by Bayre

Story concept and research by Mikiya and Twinchy

Summary: While recouping at Bobby's Dean tries to seek out a way to pull Sam from his slump. After Dean is attacked in his nightmares, he and Sam must use an unusual new ability to hunt a creature which only appears in dreams.

PART ONE

Apparently, resurrection from the dead—or whatever you wanted to call what happened to Sam—left the guy hungry. Hungry and tired.

Bobby flipped the omelet, the third one he'd made for Sam this morning alone. He wasn't sure what the most amazing part was: the amount of food Sam stuffed into his stomach or the fact Dean would leave the kid alone with Bobby. Ever since Wyoming Dean barely let Sam out of his sight, not that Bobby really blamed him. Alongside that, Dean wouldn't leave Sam alone with anyone, especially other hunters.

Not that Bobby could blame Dean about that either. Sam had been somewhat of a target ever since he'd been possessed and now? Suffice to say that once word got out about Sam dying—_being murdered_—and reappearing alive and mostly well a few days later, his safety was going to be questionable at best. Bobby considered it a huge sign of faith and trust from both boys that Sam was alone with him now. He had no delusions, however. As much as he knew both boys loved him, if something happened to Sam on Bobby's watch, Dean was likely to string him up by his toenails and cut him into tiny bite-sized pieces. Then Dean would get mean.

Dean was wound so tightly he'd likely snap at the smallest strain. Sam wasn't any better, simply quieter about it.

The kid, like his big brother, had never been a slouch when it came to food. The only difference was Sam didn't make eating the religious experience Dean did. What he did do, however, was pack away as much as Dean. These days, it was more.

Since Cold Oak, the boys—_his boys_—had landed at Bobby's showing no sign of leaving, other than the brief trip not so long ago for a hunt. Bobby certainly didn't mind, but Sam seemed to have two speeds these days, eat and sleep. Maybe the kid was part hound after all. One thing was for sure: either they were going to get back out on the road hunting, or whatever the hell they did when they weren't parked at Bobby's, or they were going to get jobs.

At least Dean was making himself useful helping with the car repairs and the junking business. Sam had become a giant, _hungry_, throw rug.

Pulling the last loaf of bread out of the refrigerator, Bobby sighed and shook his head. Today's paper with the job listings was going to find its way next to Sam's plate.

To make it all worse, Dean was barely sleeping at all, making him cranky. Cranky Dean was not a nice houseguest. Bobby didn't argue at all when Dean would announce he was heading out to the salvage yard. Sam would look hurt and lost, but Bobby couldn't find it in him to be very concerned. Dealing with one out-of-sorts Winchester at a time was more than enough for any mere mortal—or immortal for that matter—thank you very much.

Bobby didn't stop Sam from trailing after Dean when he chose, but he didn't encourage Sam to do so either. So far, he was letting them set their own pace and go about getting themselves together in whatever way they needed. The idea that he might have to change tactics and do it soon, though, formed a few days ago and was growing bigger and stronger.

So, that morning, off Dean had gone, travel mug full of hot coffee, outside after barely eating at all and grumbling and growling with every step. Sam inhaled everything on the table and Bobby was damn glad he'd gotten his hand out of the way before Sam snarfed that up too. The kid had showered, napped and was now prowling through the refrigerator for more food.

"Here." Bobby dropped the plate laden with omelet, toast and ham onto the table. Then, he slapped the newspaper down beside it.

Scratching the back of his head, Sam eased into the chair and peered up at Bobby, sheepish expression all over his face. "Where's—"

"Outside, where else?"

"Oh, do you mind if I—" Sam waved in the direction of the coffee pot.

"You know how it works."

"Thanks. Uh, Bobby, we'll…I mean I'll…I mean I know this costs…"

Bobby saw how Sam eyed the paper before lumbering to the other side of the kitchen to make a new pot of coffee.

"Can it, kid." Boy, he'd stuck to his guns on Sam getting a job. "Besides, I'm getting twice as many cars fixed and work done with your brother around to help out here and there, so, just…you get better, back to yourself."

"I'm not sick, Bobby." Sam wasn't facing him, but Bobby could tell by the sound of his voice and the way his shoulders slumped, his face had fallen too.

"I know."

"You and Dean act like I'm going to break. On top of that, Dean acts like I'm going to vanish into thin air."

"Sam," Bobby needed to sit down. "You know, it's been confusing. For us all." He braced his elbows on the table and scooted the chair closer to the table. "Sit down, Sam."

"Bobby—"

"I said _sit_." Grabbing the back of the chair beside him Bobby gave it a hard enough shake the legs scraped across the floor.

Sam huffed, ambled across the room and threw himself into the chair with a second, louder huff. Bobby ignored it just like he'd ignored Sam's other range of put-out noises and snarly expressions since he'd been a small child. This was probably exactly why Dean even considered walking out the door to the salvage yard earlier, leaving Sam inside. Bobby didn't cut them any slack and whether they wanted to believe it or not, they listened to him.

The omelet, ham and coffee mug were very interesting. At least that's where Sam's gaze was stuck.

"What do you remember?"

A forkful of eggs made it to Sam's mouth, his fingers clenched white around the utensil handle and his eyes shifted to Bobby though he didn't turn his head and his bangs hung over his face, blocking his expression. Sam shrugged, his back and shoulders were tense and awkward.

It was all Bobby really needed for an answer. He reached out and let his fingers curl gently around Sam's forearm. A shiver rippled through the kid.

"Sam?"

The fork was carefully laid beside the plate. The fingers of Sam's free hand swiped through his hair. "I remember being afraid and alone. There was cold and dark. Mostly, I remember thinking how much I needed Dean and I wanted to go home. Those are all nothing but vague feelings, though. I'm not even sure they're memories."

Bobby nodded, taking a few minutes to gather his thoughts and decide how he was going to do this. He didn't miss the fact Sam equated Dean with home. "Sam," he started slowly, wanting to use the right words. "It's got to be frustrating, being treated like you're sick when you aren't, but neither of us thinks you're going to break, or that there is something wrong with you, not really. You're obviously more tired than normal; I suppose that'll go away. You have some vague idea of what happened, but nothing clear cut, feelings of being alone, scary feelings but not anything concrete, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Now put yourself in Dean's spot. Imagine what it would be like to see him knifed in the back, watch the life go out of his eyes right in front of you, feel his body get cold and stiff while you held him. How would you feel preparing Dean's body for a funeral pyre and then lighting that pyre? You died, Sam, but you weren't the only casualty."

Rubbing thumb and forefinger over his forehead Sam looked up quickly then focused on the plate in front of him again. The quick glance Bobby was offered was enough. Sam's terror wasn't gone, not by a long shot. He was simply covering it well. His confusion consumed him and the need for help he probably couldn't even identify radiated off him in monstrous waves.

These boys needed to heal, find their way and the only path there Bobby could see was for them to pick up the pieces of each other together.

"Sam, you were ready to give Azazel anything to spare Dean. You need to be as prepared to give Dean and yourself anything to get through this." He gave Sam's arm a squeeze. "You understand me, boy?"

Sam nodded and wiped the back of his hand over his nose, "I think so. Swallow some pride and make it easier for us to take care of one another." He finally looked up at Bobby. "But I don't know much about fixing cars."

Sitting back, Bobby nodded and sighed. "You know more about your brother than anyone."

Pushing back from the table, Sam stood up slowly and drew in a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. Patting Bobby's shoulder, Sam managed a small smile, "Thanks."

For the first time since coming back from Wyoming, Bobby felt maybe, just maybe they'd be okay.

-o-

Dean finished with the car, the third one he'd fixed that morning; shutting the hood and wiping grease first off it and then his hands. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of oil, gas, dirt and sun-heated metal.

It was nice out here. The sun warmed the air around him as well as his bare arms. Needing to wear nothing but t-shirt and jeans was pleasant. Dean tipped his head back and let the sun shine down on him. It wasn't so hot yet to be uncomfortable, not like it would be in a few months at the height of summer.

He liked it out here, even if Sam was sprouting roots in the house somewhere. Dean smiled with the fleeting thought. He hoped Bobby didn't water his brother; the boy was big enough as it was. Most importantly, it was peaceful and quiet outside the house. He could almost forget the less than restful sleep he'd gotten the past few nights.

The way voices whispered just loud enough for him to hear this morning while fixing his coffee or how he'd looked for a turned on radio or TV and found none…he could almost forget those too.

He could almost convince himself he hadn't heard those things, almost forget they'd ever happened.

Almost, but not quite. What was with his head anyway? It seemed hell bent on knowing he'd heard the voices and remembering them. It also seemed determined to torture him at night, reliving over and over the image of a knife sinking into Sam's body, watching him drop to his knees, feeling the life and breath leave him in a quiet sigh.

The worst was Sam's eyes. All his life Dean had watched Sam, studied him, and his brother's eyes were so full of emotion, curiosity…_life_. In those last few moments, they hadn't been Sam's eyes anymore. Life and spark, the kindness and expression had seeped away even as Sam struggled in his last lucid moments to focus on the sound of Dean's voice or his face; there was no way to know. The light had literally left Sam's eyes and gone out leaving them flat, void, dead, nothing but sunken holes inside Sam's face.

Dean shuddered and rubbed his arms, no longer warm from the late spring sun, but now covered with goosebumps.

When he'd finally given up and gotten up, stumbling to the kitchen to make coffee, he'd heard a voice soft and breathy, odd for someone on a radio show. What was said Dean barely grasped, and he wasn't completely sure he'd heard right. Two uttered words—_inside you_—or something similar sounding.

He'd wondered for a minute what was inside him besides gas.

Naturally, he'd gone on a small, quiet hunt through Bobby's first floor, turning up no intruder, no left on radio or TV, nothing to account for whispers behind him other than the way the hair at the back of his neck stood on end and the skin behind his ear tingled from air flowing across it.

Dean didn't think any spirit would dare _think_ about haunting Bobby's house, let alone do it. No matter, Dean planned to casually plant the necessary herb bags and maybe do a cleansing. A haunting was the only explanation Dean was willing to accept right now. It was the only thing that could account for how his ears rebelled against him.

Sighing, he bent down to latch the tool chest, his fingers winding over not solid, cool metal, but softer, warmer flesh. Sucking in a harsh, fast breath, Dean jerked away and spun on his heels, nearly falling into Sam and knocking them both down. "S-sammy?"

Sam grinned sheepishly and picked up the tool chest, "Sorry. I thought you'd heard me." He eyed Dean curiously—eyes full of life, curiosity, kindness, not flat, cold, dead—nodded once as if he understood Dean's thoughts and stepped away.

The oddest sensation swept over Dean for a few seconds, as if he was given an insight into Sam's head, or maybe Sam was given one into his—_inside you_.

Maybe Sam did see his thoughts. Dean really hoped not.

Sam stood quietly watching him, eyes warm and kind blinking patiently, the barest hint of dimples forming. Some sort of understanding passed between them, Dean felt it as if he'd been doused with a bucket of cold water. Sam didn't see his thoughts, but he sure did know how to read Dean's emotions, just as Dean read his.

_Make the funeral pyre perfect for Sam. No, don't hurt Dean, I'll do anything, I need_—

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean met his brother's gaze. "You okay?" The words slipped out before Dean could stop them. Instead of a sharp blown-out breath and eye roll, he was pleasantly surprised when Sam's smile widened a bit and he nodded.

"Yeah, I'm good." Sam waved his free hand at the car, "You done here? If there's more I can help."

"No—naaa…I'm good here, done for now I think." Dean reached for the tool chest, but Sam's fingers visibly tightened around the handle. He stood gazing, wide-eyed at Dean. Straightening, Dean let his hand drop to his side. "What were you up to while I was out here?"

Sam shrugged, "Nothing much. I got sort of lonely so decided to come out and keep you company, even if I don't help."

Dean's eyes suddenly stung, making him look away. Sam was never that open, not for a long time and he rarely admitted wanting Dean's company for anything deeper than a night out, even if Dean did know better. "Damn dust around here." He twisted on his heels and walked ahead of Sam by a few steps as they made their way to the garage.

"Bobby made an omelet and ham. I put on some fresh coffee." Sam jogged a few steps to catch up.

Glancing sideways for a few seconds, Dean got another glimpse of Sam's face, unmasked and honest. Grinning, Dean let his hand rest on Sam's shoulder for a few steps. "Sweet."

Bobby was nowhere to be seen, so they loaded up plates, got their fresh coffee and padded quietly into the living room to watch some TV while they ate. There wasn't much on, but Sam seemed content with wherever Dean's finger stopped on the remote. For now it was news. By the time Sam's plate was nearly empty he was yawning more than chewing or eating so Dean moved off the couch and settled in a recliner. Two minutes later, Sam was sprawled along the couch, feet hanging over the end, eyelids shut, breathing light and steady.

Dean took both plates and dumped them in the sink; they'd wash dishes later. Grabbing Sam's laptop from the kitchen table, he opened it and booted it up, setting it on the seat of the recliner. He walked soundlessly across the room, pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and tucked it around Sam. Satisfied his brother would stay asleep for at least an hour or two, Dean pulled the recliner close enough to the couch he could prop his feet on it and rest them against Sam's shins.

Trading places with the laptop, Dean settled in the chair, computer on his lap, and started surfing. Search after search with keywords like _hearing voices_ and _insomnia_ lead to other searches with titles like _psychosis_, _mental illness_ and _schizophrenia_.

He was not going crazy. He simply was _not_.

Tilting his head to one side Dean tried to conjure up the voices, tried to hear them. Nada, zip, zilch, nothing. Even voices in his head couldn't be dependable.

He was stressed, that was all. There was also the very real possibility something had gotten into Bobby's house and was messing with him. Dean was tending toward the stress, cause geez, he watched his kid brother, his only true family, the brother he'd raised, get knifed in the back. Held him while he died—_isn't that my job, taking care of my pain-in-the-ass little brother?_—then saw him come back from the dead, the dead and burned. Sam wasn't a hallucination, he was real. Bobby saw him, Ellen, Jo: they'd all seen and touched Sam. Sam was real and solid, alive and here.

Not so long ago Sam had been cold and dead, then a pile of smoking ashes. That was enough to mess with anyone. Of course, there was the extra added attraction of Dad and his funky new eyes. Sam was back from the dead, and Dad was sporting demonic power, so naturally Dean might be a tad off his game. It was a good, logical explanation for voices that weren't there.

Didn't crazy people always think they weren't the crazy ones?

Powering down the laptop and closing it, Dean carefully set it on a nearby table, stood and stretched. He couldn't see the TV very well from where he was and the computer had lost its allure. Wiggling one finger over the bottoms of Sam's feet a few times, Dean grinned when he got the expected response. Bending his knees, Sam retracted his feet enough for Dean to scrunch in at the end of the couch. It'd been a tried and true method since Sam was maybe two.

Right now he was bored and wanted something to do, but was reluctant to leave his snoozing brother alone and unguarded. Never mind Sam didn't much need guarding these days, not like when he really was two. The truth was Dean needed to and Sam seemed less jumpy when Dean was around. At least that's what Bobby had said a day or two ago.

Using the recliner as a footstool, Dean snagged the end of the blanket covering Sam and pulled it over his own legs. Sam shifted and halfway turned on his side, stretching out far enough the balls of his feet hit Dean's thigh, but didn't go farther. Warm feelings spreading through him, Dean lifted Sam's feet and plopped them down on his lap. With one hand resting across Sam's ankles and the other draped against the end of the couch, Dean held the remote loosely and flicked through stations.

There was Dr. Splatz, another station had Dr. Futz, and then there was Dr. Spuzzy…sheesh there were more TV psychiatrists than there were evangelists and infomercial guys put together. One show caught his attention, though, the topic of confusing possessions with mental illness. The corner of Dean's mouth turned up a fraction when some girl in the audience stood up and asked Dr. Splatz if maybe demons and possessions should at least be considered, after all wasn't anything possible?

Dean leaned back and yawned, watching the TV. The girl had an open mind and more importantly a low cut, snuggly fitting blouse and a pretty face. Voices droned on, the show switching to a commercial Dean barely paid attention to…Sam's chest rose and fell, alive, he was alive and well.

_Strongest is murdered in righteousness_.

Dean sat up so fast the remote tumbled to the floor. He blinked at the TV, rubbed his eyes and looked around. Chills ran down his spine making him reluctant to leave his brother asleep and undefended. He knew he should go look for the source of the voice, yet Dean stayed rooted to the couch. He wasn't moving unless he woke Sam up and made him come along, which would mean explaining to Sam why Dean wanted to check through the house.

Coughing and clearing his throat loud enough anyone in the house would hear him, Dean scanned the room. Nothing out of place, nothing moved. It must have been something on the TV, or that pesky ghost Bobby obviously had. Really, the man should learn to ward his house better.

Eyelids getting heavy again, Dean relaxed back against the couch. Nothing was in here other than him, Sam, possibly an annoying poltergeist and an old TV. Voices from the TV blended with the sounds of the old house and what filtered through the windows from outside. Dean gave in, slipped farther down on the couch and let his eyelids do what they wanted.

"_Sam! Look out. Saauumy!" Dean shouted, running, lungs burning, heart lurching when he saw the smile on Sam's face wiped away not by the rain but by the expression of confusion and pain. Back arching as he pitched forward a few more steps, Sam crashed to his knees. Dean barely caught Sam before he went face first into cold mud._

_Sam's head bobbed forward then jerked upright only to tip forward again. His eyes searched out Dean's face, lips worked, but nothing came out. Dean's hand pulled away from Sam's back covered with blood and flesh. He knew without even looking, Sam's spine was ripped apart by the knife. _

"_You'll be okay, Sammy, I got you, I'll take care of you." Even as Dean said the words, he knew Sam couldn't hear him. He rocked Sam away from him far enough to look directly at his face. It was slack. The sight of Sam's eyes wrenched Dean's gut viciously. They weren't Sam's eyes; there was no spark of life, easy twinkle of kindness, no passion, nothing at all. _

_Without warning Sam's body—_his dead body_—was yanked away, arms and legs flapping in the wake of movement like some grotesque rag doll. Azazel stood behind Sam. He snapped his fingers and Sam's mouth jerked open in a silent scream, eyes opened wide, his face was a mixture of shock and pain. He wasn't dead anymore. "He's all mine now."_

"_Actually, he's mine." John appeared from nowhere and Dean silently cheered. Dad wouldn't let Sam die or be taken by Yellow Eyes. Grasping Sam's shoulder, John spun him around and shoved him over backwards to the ground, pouring gasoline all over him._

"_Nooo." Dean stumbled to his feet only to be shoved back down by some invisible hand. "He's not evil, Dad no."_

_John shook his head sadly and flung one hand forward, sending sparks of fire to ignite Sam. Screaming filled Dean's ears, Sam's screaming for him to come and help him, to keep him from burning alive. No matter how Dean struggled, he simply fell farther down into the mud. The rancid odor of burning flesh hit his nostrils and turned his stomach. Skin and flesh bubbled over Sam's features and fell away._

_Without a word, John tilted his head back and pointed up. Sam's body slid skyward. Dean didn't want to look, but he was powerless to not. It wasn't Sam above him, but a woman, pale golden hair hung down, her white nightgown twisting and flowing around her legs and her arms held out to the sides like an angel. _

"_Mom?" Dean didn't even try to stop the sob. "Not…no…Mom!"_

_The woman burst into flames, screaming. She morphed into another blonde woman, Jessica. Her blood dripped from above, splattering over the ground at Dean's feet, coalescing and twisting to first become Sam then cover him. _

_Without warning, Dean was freed. He staggered forward, falling beside Sam. Two deep breaths and he was pushing off the ground, hauling Sam with him and away from the fire, shouting and kicking. Holding Sam against him with both arms around his brother's waist, Dean spun around and shoved him away from the fire…straight into the waiting blade of their father._

_Shuddering so hard his teeth rattled and his vision blurred Dean tried pulling Sam away, but it was too late, Sam dropped to his knees, the life bleeding out of his eyes once again. His mouth opened, his throat worked but no voice came out other than the wheeze from the rush of air leaving his lungs._

_Spears of pain gouged through Dean's thighs, shooting up to his hips and down to his feet. For the briefest instant, Sam was standing before him, tall, strong, _alive_. He held out one hand, shouting at Dean._

_Through the cotton that seemed to be plugging his ears Dean heard Sam's voice, "DEAN!"_

_Ignoring how his legs blazed with a deep ache, Dean lurched forward and grasped Sam's outstretched hand. Gripping tight, Sam threw his weight back and jerked Dean toward him._

Jackknifing away from the back of the couch, Dean at once realized the horrid pain in his legs was from Sam's heels digging into his muscles as he sat up and pulled at Dean. Looking around, Dean couldn't figure out where he was. The only real sensation that got through was the fact Sam's heels were pressed into his legs and Sam's hands were on his shoulders, shaking him with a grip so tight it hurt.

"Dean! Dean, wake up. What's wrong with you?" Sam sounded desperate, young and terrified. He was shaking Dean with such ferocity Dean thought his teeth and eyes would fly right out of his head.

Holding onto Sam's arms, Dean mumbled, "Sam, I'm…stop…off…" he shoved Sam's feet away from his legs and panted out a few breaths, the pain vanishing the second Sam's feet were on the floor.

"So-sor-sorry." Sam's fingers gripped harder on Dean's shoulders. "Are you okay? Jesus, Dean, I thought you were dying, being torn apart from the inside out." The poor kid was shaking so badly his bangs shimmied side to side.

He needed room, right the hell now. Pushing off the couch, Dean backed away. "I'm…I was dreaming…I…gimme some space, Sam."

"What the hell kind of dream was _that_?" Sam's voice rose with every word, he sounded angry, but his eyes were saucer-wide, his skin was pale and he trembled head to foot.

The same odd feeling as before washed over Dean and trickled down his back. Quirking an eyebrow, his gaze met Sam's. His kid brother's eyebrows pulled together and he sucked in a deep breath, going completely still. Plainly he felt the same thing as Dean.

Shaking his head to clear the ringing deep inside his ears, Dean backed away a few steps. "I need air, or—" clenching and unclenching his fists he glanced around the room before settling his gaze on Sam. "I just…I need some air…I'm sorry."

Before Sam could comment or argue, Dean was running out of the room, not stopping until he was on Bobby's back steps. Sinking to the hard wood, he braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his palms. He was vaguely aware of footsteps behind him stepping down each stair cautiously. The step Dean sat on creaked when Sam eased down beside him. Sam's hand rested on Dean's shoulder.

It was probably five minutes, maybe more, before Dean could quiet his shaking insides and convince his mouth and brain to work together to talk coherently. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay." Sam huffed a short laugh, "Not like I haven't scared you plenty with my nightmares and visions."

"Yeah, well, that's different."

Sam leaned to the side, bumping hard into Dean with his shoulder. "No, it's not."

Sitting straighter and turning to face his brother, Dean took the plunge, "Sam, were you inside my dream?"

Nodding slowly, Sam said quietly, "I think so."


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

The way Dean sounded, how he looked when Sam bolted awake, was like nothing he'd seen or heard from his brother, or anyone, ever. At first he couldn't sit up properly and didn't understand why, struggling and fighting to get his feet on something solid until he realized his ankles were across Dean's legs.

Shuddering uncontrollably, Sam pushed the upper half of his body away from the couch and stopped there for a few seconds, staring. It was late afternoon, sunlight streaming through the windows, catching on lampshades, chairs, the couch and casting long shadows to slither along the floor. However, it was different shape that drew Sam's attention.

Hovering around Dean was another shadow of sorts. It wasn't exactly a shadow, not really, but there was no other way Sam could come up with to describe it. Sam glared at it and for a second he could swear it glared right back. Dean's chest was heaving as he pulled in uneven breaths, his voice stuttering, his entire body quaking. His skin was pale and a fine sheen of damp covered his cheeks, neck and exposed forearms.

When Dean's breath shuddered and faltered, Sam threw himself forward, using his heels against Dean's thighs for purchase. Fingers wrapping hard around Dean's arms, Sam shook and shouted for all his worth.

In the next breath, for the briefest instant, he was inside Dean's head. Dean was shrinking in size. It took Sam a few beats to realize his brother wasn't diminishing, but being dragged away. Holding out one hand, Sam shouted for his brother, begged and pleaded for him to take Sam's hands.

For once, Dean swallowed his damn pride and lurched forward, thrusting one hand out in front of him. Dean's hand grasped Sam's, hanging on with such power Sam's fingers went white and stung. Throwing his full weight back, he gave Dean enough of a boost he got his feet under him and Sam was able to drag him closer.

Then all of a sudden, they were in Bobby's living room, on the old, overstuffed couch, each drawing in trembling breaths, bodies literally vibrating from the strain of Dean's nightmare. Sam didn't stop shaking and tugging at his brother's shoulders until Dean shoved at his shins and pushed his feet to the floor.

Dean was off the couch and backing away, taking Sam's heart with him. Terrified he'd done some awful wrong to his brother, invoked his ire somehow, Sam sat and watched as Dean stepped back, mumbled apologies and ran from the room.

Sam sat and stared at his hands for a minute, the too cool sensation from Dean's skin still lingered against his palms. People having nightmares didn't exhibit early signs of shock. Then there was the whatever-it-was that had skated between them. For a few brief seconds, their minds were totally open to one another; not direct thoughts, but sensations and emotions.

He hadn't done anything wrong. Dean wasn't revolted or angry, not with Sam. What Dean was was scared, shaken to his very core. It had nothing to do with Sam and at the same time Sam knew it had everything to do with him.

Ever since coming back from Cold Oak—_from being dead_—Sam stuck like glue to his brother. Dean was his safe haven. His broad shoulders were perfect for hiding behind and never once was Sam turned away, not as a child and not now. Sam was never turned away or rejected when Dean stomped out of the house and to the salvage yard to work on cars if Sam followed. Dean may not have been overly chatty, but Sam saw how he'd glance every few minutes at Sam, not even trying to conceal the fact he was checking up on him. If Sam stayed inside, he was given a very critical once over, Dean's eyes sweeping over him head to foot when Dean returned. Bobby was next to be scrutinized, Dean clearly wanting to be sure Sam had been treated to his satisfaction in his absence.

The wound that split open inside Sam when Dean ran from the room, from him, was wide and painful. Taking a few deep breaths and running one hand through his hair, Sam looked around the room. No odd shadows. It hit him, pretty much right between his eyes, right then, Dean had run from whatever he'd dreamt of, not Sam. If he'd been running from Sam, there would have been no apology and an order not to follow, to stay put and stay inside, leave Dean alone.

No such words had come from Dean's mouth.

Sam mentally licked his wounded heart. His brother was still the overprotective guy he'd always been. Sam's place in the world, and Dean's heart was safe, unchallenged and stable as ever. Whatever Dean ran from, it wasn't Sam. It was something that didn't simply frighten him, but _terrified_ him.

Finding his boots, Sam slipped them on and went to the back door. He and Dean often sat on the back steps, and it was likely the first place Dean had gone. Sam wasn't disappointed.

He sat on the steps beside Dean, resting one hand on his brother's shoulder as much to offer support as to calm and reassure himself. Dean barely glanced at him, but he didn't shrug off Sam's hand either. In fact, Dean's shoulders relaxed and the tension keeping his back ramrod straight bled off him, making Dean's spine curve into a more relaxed posture.

A few minutes later when Dean straightened and asked if Sam had been in Dean's dream, Sam didn't really think about the question, simply said he thought so.

"How the hell can you do that?"

Sam dropped his gaze away from Dean's, focusing on the spot of ground between his feet. "I don't know. You're angry with me?"

"No…God, Sammy, no. I'm getting a little freaked out by this crap, yeah I'll admit that, but not angry, not at you. I'm angry this happens to you…to us…but it sure isn't your fault."

"It just happened, I think, when I grabbed your arm to wake you up."

Dean's knuckles tapped lightly against Sam's knee until Sam turned his head far enough to look at Dean. "Hey, dude, what did you see?"

"Just you."

Drawing in a deep breath, Dean propped the bent elbow of his right arm on his leg and held his open hand up, palm turned to Sam. "I used this hand."

Frowning, Sam leaned closer. Dean's words were so soft it was hard to understand him. "For what?" Dean shook his head and looked away. Sam's fingers clamped down on his shoulder. "Dean? I don't understand what—" His words were cut off when Dean stood and in one stride was off the steps and on the ground.

"I…" Dean paced away a few steps then back toward the house, all the while never looking at Sam. Turning so he mostly faced away from Sam, Dean's voice came out broken and wet, shaking that same hand a few times before letting it fall to his side. Dean seemed to shrink in some kind of defeat. "I lit your…I burned your body and used this hand to light…" He broke off. Head dropping, Dean turned away completely, but Sam still saw how he wiped across his face with his other hand. "I got there, to Cold Oak, and saw you. Sam, when you turned around, heard my voice, saw me, the look on your face…"

"I was glad to see you. I wasn't even sure you were alive."

Dean kept on going as if he hadn't heard, but Sam could tell by how his back tensed he had. "You looked at me like I was some kind of hero and your entire expression was…hell I don't know, but glad doesn't cover it. Then," Dean's words choked, he shook his head once, sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. "Then your whole face changed to agony and all I could do was watch when that bastard…the knife went right into…" The last word was more of a sob.

Dean took another two steps away and shoved his fists into his pockets. "I couldn't do anything. You kept trying to hold your head up and look at me and I couldn't do a damn thing to help," Yanking one hand from his pocket Dean shoved it against his mouth for a few seconds then curled his fingers into a fist, hitting his thigh as he spoke. "You died, Sam. I held you and watched as you took your last breath. I saw how your eyes just died…I held you and you died."

Sam stood and closed the short distance between them, "Dean, it wasn't—" He reached out, fingertips brushing down his brother's back.

"Not my fault?" Dean stepped away far enough he was out of reach, contact broken. "I know that. But that didn't help when I built a pyre and wrapped your body and put a flame to you then stood there and watched until there was nothing but ashes." Leaning over and letting his knees bend, Dean sank down onto his heels. "I went to the Crossroad's Demon and begged, but—"

"You did _what_?" The words blasted out of Sam's mouth before he gave them any thought. Covering the distance between them in two long, angry strides, Sam grabbed Dean's arms, hauled him up and spun him around. He opened his mouth to let his brother have it—both barrels—and stopped, shutting his mouth and biting down on the inside of his lower lip.

No defense was offered, no words begging Sam for forgiveness, nothing but tortured eyes with a sadness Sam had never witnessed in anyone before met him.

Dean squared his shoulders and stepped back. "And I'd do it again and again and again. Don't think I didn't hear what you said to Yellow Eyes."

"I'm sorry." Sam's anger completely deflated.

"For what, Sam?" Dean was shouting at him now. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. Am I pissed that you'd give yourself up for me like that?" Sam could shout as loud as Dean. "Yeah, _Hell_ yeah. But if it'd been you…I couldn't live without…I get it, okay?"

They stood staring each other down for several minutes before they both seemed to realize they didn't need to argue.

"Whenever I go to sleep, even for a few minutes, I get to live that over and over. You're alive and well and right here and I get to see you die _every_ goddamn time I close my eyes. And the last day or so, they're getting worse, not better. Shouldn't they get better, go away?" The last sentence came out more of a plea than a question. "I'm scared to death to go to sleep. You might die and not come back."

Sam didn't know what to do, or what to say. He stood watching his brother, feeling ashamed. Here he'd been so consumed with himself, his own undefined fears and Dean was there, had been there all along, taking care of him. His brother did everything, said anything he could to make Sam feel safe all the while he was falling apart inside piece by piece.

All because of Sam.

Well, that was done. Sam could certainly offer Dean the same Dean had given so freely to him every day of his life. He took a tentative step closer, "Dean, you know, I can chase away monsters too. I learned from you and you're the best, hands down."

"I thought with time they'd ease up." Dean's face and eyes softened. He nodded ever so slightly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. His leaned his head bent back and stared up at the sky, eyes closing. "I'm tired, God, I'm so freaking tired."

"I wish I could take it back and never put that knife down, but I can't."

Dean looked at Sam again, "If you hadn't done that, you wouldn't be you. I'm proud of you for doing that, even if that sick, weasely little bastard did stab you."

That shouldn't have surprised Sam as much as it did. Wasn't Dean always proud of Sam? It was a staple of Sam's existence. "I think there was something in there with us?"

"Huh?"

"Right as you woke up, I was in your head, then not and right after that, I think there was some kind of…." Sam shook his head, "I don't even know what, a shadow, hazy air, I'm not even sure. Definitely something."

"Sam, in case you haven't noticed where we are, Bobby's house is a supernatural Fort Knox. Dude, I'm surprised _we_ can get in."

"We run across new things all the time. Maybe something that isn't affected by the normal stuff?" Sam shrugged, "Is it going to hurt to do a bit of reading?"

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched up a fraction, "No, I guess not. Don't be disappointed or blame yourself if you don't find anything, though. Promise me."

"What I'm promising you is I'm going to do something about this." Motioning between them with one hand, Sam grinned, "This whole taking care of thing? Goes both ways you know."

Dean might as well have given Sam every wish he'd ever wanted, the way Sam felt when Dean nodded his agreement.

-o-

"Dean, that nightmare you had, it's not normal." Sam padded into the kitchen, open book juggled in one hand. "You almost done with that?" He pointed with his free hand to the laptop Dean was planted in front of. "What are you looking for? When you're done let me know so I can check some things out, okay?"

"Nothing." Dean grumbled, deleted the history and clicked the browser closed. "All yours." He swiveled the laptop around and gave it a shove across the table. It wasn't like anything he'd read made him feel much better anyway.

Sam straddled the chair opposite him, set the book down and smiled softly. "I didn't mean this second."

"I wasn't doing anything." Dean shrugged, "These old books of Bobby's have sleep advice now too?"

"Well…sort of." Sam turned the book so Dean could see. "There are a few creatures that'll attach themselves to someone and feed off their nightmares, or more so, the emotions their nightmares invoke. Sometimes they'll even enter a person's nightmares and sort of enhance them to get what they want."

Dean flipped idly through the pages, "C'mon, dude, Bobby has every ward, symbol and protection known to mankind. What could possibly get in here?" Besides the obvious, a pesky, _ballsy_, spirit Dean couldn't help thinking.

"Yeah, but, Dean, what if there are some things not affected by the protections Bobby has? Some creatures, old ones, they can't even be killed. You banish them. A few of these," Sam thumped the book, "They feed once or twice and move on."

"Sam—" Dean began, looking up at his brother. He closed his mouth. Sam wasn't droopy-eyed, depressed or uninterested in life. In the span of a few hours, Dean had his brother back. The guy who was interested in life, saving people—Dean—tracking down the most minute details on a hunt. The problem was there was no hunt, not that Dean could see.

However, Sam thought he saw a hunt. A hunt more important to him than any other hunt; a hunt that he believed would help Dean.

He should have thought of it earlier. Dean mentally kicked himself for forcing Sam into a hunt that didn't benefit him. What he should have done, long before today, was make up something for Sam to investigate surrounding Dean. Or, maybe just tell Sam about the voices. How was Sam going to hunt voices? Maybe the same way he could hunt dreams. How could a simple poltergeist get into Bobby's house to annoy the piss out of Dean?

Maybe the voices weren't from a ghost.

_When the righteous is murdered_.

"Are you listening to me? Dean?" Sam had reached across the table and was shaking Dean's arm.

"Huh? Yeah. Sure." Dean rubbed one ear.

Cocking his head to one side, Sam arched one eyebrow, "What did I say?"

"You…ah…um…feeding?"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Dean, you haven't heard a single thing I've said. This is _important_."

_You are the answer_.

"I'm sorry. Look I'm not, I can't really…"

_Inside you_.

"…concentrate very well."

Now, Sam was pouting at him. Well, at least when he was pouting at Dean, Sam wasn't sleeping.

"How much have you slept in the last few days?" Sam straightened in his chair, palms dropping to his hips, pout turning into some kind of mixture of worry and disapproval.

Dean shrugged. "When I'm asleep I'm not keeping time."

"This isn't funny."

Sighing, Dean leaned both hands on the table, focusing completely on his brother. "Okay, I'm sorry, I drifted. But I'm listening now. You have my undivided attention. Tell me again, please?"

He had to focus. Sam really believed there was something and it was good for him. This imaginary hunt had purpose, meaning and a connection for Sam. Dean had to go with it or risk Sam falling back into the horrible depression he'd been floundering around in since coming…since Cold Oak.

Sam huffed, but pulled his hands up and spun the book around, turning the pages quickly. He turned it back so Dean could read. "Here," he pointed to one page, "Check this one out."

"Nachtalb? What is it?"

"It comes from the same part of the world as a Shtriga. Except where a Shtriga hunts, this is more like a bottom feeder. It's drawn to someone's nightmares, and becomes part of the nightmare then absorbs the feelings. Mostly, it feeds a few nights and moves on. If not, the person having the nightmare can suffer permanent damage. Some have died of stress induced heart failure."

Boy, Sam sure knew how to pick them. "Could it be something _more_ obscure?" Dean shrugged, "Okay, whatever, how do we waste it?" He didn't really believe there was some kind of bottom feeder whose name sounded like a bad cold trolling around his head. That wasn't the point, though, Sam believed it.

In the meantime they'd do whatever was needed. Dean's nightmares were bound to go away eventually, Sam would think he solved this 'case' and all would be right with the Winchesters. Case closed, problem solved, onto the bigger fish they had to fry.

"We don't." Sam's fingers fiddled with the edges of the book. "It can't be killed. It's one of those banish it type things. Most of these creatures are like that. They exist between planes, so we have to send it back."

"This sounds like a very bad sci-fi movie."

"There's a catch." Sam scratched at his jaw.

"There's always a catch."

"This thing, the Nachtalb, it gets into the dreamer's head. What it also does is create an environment that makes sure no one can interfere or wake up its victim."

Dean squinted, drew in a deep breath and took a minute to process. "How, _exactly_, does it do that?" It was a good thing this wasn't a real hunt, or that this creature wasn't actually here, because Dean knew he wasn't going to like the answer. "Does it say something?"

Sam shook his head no. "I don't think it talks at all. It casts some sort of spell over others in the room, making them stay asleep."

"You woke me up, Sam. And don't think I haven't forgotten that little trick you pulled, showing up in my nightmare."

"I know."

"What did you see again?"

Sam shrugged. "It was something dark, like a shadow but no light got around it. It sat there on your shoulder and I _swear_ it glared at me."

Despite believing there wasn't anything in this house other than musty old books, Bobby and his many hidden potions and bottles of holy water, and them, Dean shivered at Sam's description. "So a black hole is feeding off what's inside my head when I sleep?"

Sam gave him a pissy look, but kept on as if Dean hadn't said anything. "There is a ritual, but it has to be completed while the Nachtalb is actively feeding."

"Like the Shtriga?" Dean cut in.

"Yeah, exactly like that. It's not a long ritual, or complicated, it's just that it's—"

"Pretty much impossible if everyone else in the room is kept asleep and the dreamer is being fed off of." Dean pushed away from the chair and paced the kitchen, reminding himself again this wasn't a real hunt. "Do we even know for sure this thing is here?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing, Sam," Dean barked, ignoring the voice in his head telling him to calm down and slow down. No one was being hurt and he was supposed to play along to get them through this. "How is the ritual performed?"

"I'd have to either do something to stay awake, or get into your dream like before."

"No."

"According to this, Dean, other occupants in the victim's room will not wake up while the Nachtalb attacks and feeds, but I woke up. I woke up and woke you up and pulled you away. I can do it again."

"I'm not going to let you try to take on something that sounds like what's in a used tissue while we're both unconscious. What if you need back up? How can I do that?"

"If we're together…I don't know." Sam was on his feet, arms thrown into the air before flopping down so his fists thumped his legs. "How can you stop me? Hell, I don't even know how to stop myself. It just happened. But the fact remains, I woke up and shouldn't have been able to until it left. I woke up, woke you up and I _saw_ it."

"What in tar-nation are you two shouting about?" Bobby slammed the door, stalked across the kitchen and slapped both hands down on the table. His gaze flicked over the open book. "I can hear you all the way out in the yard!"

"Bobby, listen to me, please, because Dean sure won't." Sam grabbed Bobby's arms, turning him and forcing him to face Sam. "There is something in here, in this house and it's after my brother. He thinks he'll go along with me to be nice or something, but something _is_ here and it's feeding off of him and it'll kill him."

So much for Dean's secret mission. "Sam, I never said I didn't believe you."

"You didn't have to! It's all over your face."

"Stop it!" Bobby pulled away from Sam and flung his arms out. "Enough!"

"Bobby, how could anything get in here past all the wards and rings and protections you've got?" Dean faced them while waving one hand in a wide arch.

Bobby stared at him for a few seconds before shaking his head. "You two are stupid, you know that? Dean, there are plenty of things we know nothing about and I'm sure some aren't affected by my protections."

"See?" Sam crossed both arms over his chest, rocked on his heels looking far too smug.

"And you," Bobby turned on Sam making the smug expression fade fast, "You can_not_ go off half cocked chasing something like this just because you think you can. You can't, got it? You're a smart kid, but you sure don't know everything. Something like this," Bobby slapped the book making it wheel around the table a few times, "takes planning and research, a lot of it. There are at least eight more books in the library, so I suggest you two stop shouting, quit being a pain in my ass and get cracking!"

"Yes, sir." Sam snatched the book off the table and all but ran from the room, slowing down only to grasp Dean's shirt between two fingers and tug lightly. "Dean?"

The smirk and smartass comment about to tumble from Dean stopped when he looked at Sam's face. His brother was honestly convinced this was something to hunt. Aside from that, he genuinely wanted Dean near him. Sighing, defeated, Dean nodded, mumbled a "yes, sir," to Bobby also and let Sam lead him from the kitchen to the library.

Sam stopped at the center of the room in the library. Dean followed his gaze around the large room. It had shelves lining all the walls except the one that was all windows. In front of the shelves were stacks of books, and more in front of those. The end tables bracketing the couch and chairs in there had more books piled on top and underneath. There was a large, round table at one end, also with books underneath and scattered over top.

"Did he point out a direction?" Sam leaned over and whispered in Dean's ear.

Dean simply shook his head then coughed to cover up his laugh when Bobby shouted from the kitchen, "Second shelf down, third to the left from the fireplace."

Sam had books open and sprawled on every flat surface in no time. Dean snagged a note pad off one of the shelves and pulled the closest book to him, opened it and started reading. A short time later, Sam wandered to the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of strong coffee, back fifteen minutes later with a large mug held out to Dean. The coffee was good and cleared his head enough that the blurring words on the page straightened out for a while.

When Sam flicked on a few of the floor lamps, Dean's head bobbed and his eyelids pried open only to blink owlishly at the harsh lights. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, looking around. The sound of the coffee pot churning out yet another pot filtered through. Pushing the chair back, Dean leaned down farther on the table. He simply needed to move around for a minute. That would wake him up.

His legs and arms were heavy and uncooperative, and his back ached from being in one position for so long but no matter how much his brain commanded, no part of his body wanted to move. He was exhausted but there was no way he planned to let himself sleep. It wasn't as if he rested anyway with those voices in his head and the instant replay of every one of his very worst life experiences rolling across his mind.

Dean yawned. Maybe if he got better situated or moved to the desk or kitchen?

"_Answer the damn phone!" Dean flung his cell phone across the motel room and dropped to the bed. Why wouldn't his father answer the phone? _

_Gone. John Winchester was gone, hiding from his own son, the only one left with him. Dean was alone. He'd been alone since Sam left for Stanford, even when he stayed with his father. They hunted alone more and more, but John always kept in touch and berated Dean without mercy if he fell out of contact with his father._

_Dean rose, pacing the small room, kicking the bed and table legs. "Where the_ HELL_—"_

"_Just there, Deano, in Hell."_

_Spinning around Dean faced off Azazel, glowing yellow eyes and smug laughing face gazing back at him._

_Azazel crossed his hands in front of his middle and looked down, expression becoming almost humble. "And a fine time he's having too. Such a fast learner, such a great guy. Really, wish I'd gotten to really know him much sooner. We're poker buddies."_

"_NO!" Dean raged and charged, hands out, intending to wrap them around Yellow Eyes' neck and throttle the life from him. "You're a_ lying _sonofabitch!"_

_Azazel sidestepped and turned, waving grandly. "Poor Dean, all alone." _

"_Sam." Dean barely gasped the word out before a form appeared behind Sam and a knife plunged into his brother's spine, driving him to his knees._

"_Help me, Dean!" Sam was crying, begging. "Don't do it, don't no, please, dooo—"_

A righteous man murdered_._

"_Sammmyyy!" When Dean reached out and tried to grab Sam, a torch fell from his hand, immediately igniting Sam's clothes, body, hair._

_The rancid odor of burning hair and flesh mingled with Sam's screams, "Don't do this, no, Dean, don't let me burn, NO!"_

_Dean threw himself at Sam only to be intercepted by his father, tackled and pressed to the floor, held down by John's weight. Something skirted across John's shoulders, but before Dean could give it much thought, his father's hands were fisted in his collar. He was yanked up and slammed back down, making his head spin and ears ring._

The answer is inside you.

_Was that John or something else? Dean couldn't tell._

"_Sam is dead!" John screamed._

"_Sam is alive." Dean shot back._

_Something dark and heavy covered his face. Dean bucked and struggled against his father, trying to close his ears to the screams of his burning brother and the lies from his dead father. Somewhere in the very back of his mind he wondered, if he died in his dream would he really die?_

_Sam screamed louder, shrieking, afraid, Dean could feel it as well as hear it. "Dean, help me. Deeeeean!"_

_Tossing off John, Dean rolled to his knees only to be knocked flat. He turned his head and caught a glimpse of something small with long fingers and big teeth oozing across the floor at him. It elongated and slipped over him, smothering out his sight and breath._

_Maybe he was going to find out about that dying while asleep thing after all._

_The dark thing pressed down on his face, covering his mouth. With every exhale, it seemed to pull and swell with Dean's breath. When Dean tried to inhale, it pulled even more, keeping air from filling his lungs._

_His vision started to gray around the edges. He couldn't breathe._

_Sam's voice was panicked but not with the horrible pain of being stabbed then burnt. Somehow Dean could tell the difference, through the haze becoming his brain._

_Dean couldn't breathe. His heart slammed against his ribs. He could hear it and feel it. The pain from his own beating heart was like jackhammers forcing through his chest from the inside. This was wrong. All wrong._

_He tried desperately to call back to Sam, answer him and find his way out. If he could only follow his brother's voice, he'd get out._

_Legs jerking, feet slipping along the floor, Dean scrabbled at his face with both hands trying to pry loose the thing covering his nose and mouth._

_He was dying. Pain lanced down his spine. His chest constricted and his lungs felt as if they'd been doused in gasoline and ignited._

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe at all.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

While waiting for his coffee to brew Sam heard a crash. He dropped the sandwich he was making and ran into the library. Tripping over kitchen chairs and more falling into the library than running into it, Sam stopped short, mouth open, struggling with his brain to process what his eyes were seeing. "Dean!"

Dean had crashed to the floor and was clawing desperately at his face with one hand and pushing against some unseen assailant with the other. His eyes were open wide enough Sam thought they'd bulge out of his skull. His mouth opened and closed, working soundlessly, gasping. Back arching, he flipped and thrashed, smashing through everything in his path.

Sam charged into the room, shoving books, coffee table and chairs out of his way, throwing them aside in his panic to reach his brother. Drawing up short, he stood and stared as something bounced across Dean's shoulder and sat on his chest. A long, whip-like tail lashed back and forth with feline viciousness. It hunkered on Dean's clavicle, balanced on legs so chubby they wrinkled above the knees and ankles. It turned a round face with round ears atop its soccer-ball head in Sam's direction and peered at him from under heavy brow ridges.

It stared at Sam, expression decidedly surprised.

Sam stared back, equally surprised.

He jumped as if fired through with a shot of electricity when the thing pulled back thick lips and snarled, revealing multiple rows of short, pointed teeth. Chattering, it hopped farther down Dean's body, the wave of darkness stretching behind it leaving an obscene shadow across Dean in its wake.

Dean's lips were tinged blue, his skin taking on a pale, clammy appearance.

"Get away from him." Sam shouted and threw himself at the small creature. As his fingers closed around its thick middle, it dissolved in a whoosh of gray and black shadows.

"Christ, _Dean_!" Turning his attention to his brother, Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders and was immediately hit with a jolt powerful enough his vision went white. Screaming through tightly clenched teeth, Sam refused to let go.

Gasping for air, Sam pried his eyes open to find he was no longer hunkered on the floor of Bobby's library, but in a muddy cemetery in Wyoming. "NO!" He shouted and ran at a blur that might have been his father or might have been the creature he'd just seen. Whoever it was, Sam hit the thing broadside and shouldered it away from Dean.

Freed, Dean at once flipped around, clamoring to all fours, gasping for air. The dark blur reared back and launched itself at Dean again, elongating and stretching thin, pointed fingers at Dean. Without giving it much thought, Sam dove on top of his brother, wrapped both arms around his chest and yanked back with all his strength.

Another shock coursed through Sam's body, shattering along nerve endings head to foot, slamming his jaw shut and locking his arms. The cemetery melted away and they were once again in Bobby's library.

Arms still wound firmly around Dean's middle, Sam felt how his brother struggled and fought for every breath. Sam's hand against Dean's chest conveyed how Dean's heart hammered and stuttered, how the muscles of his ribcage strained and the spasms rolled through his back and sides.

Dean was pushing against him, at the same time one hand fluttered near his face, the other over Sam's hands. "I…can't…Sam…can't…"

"Crap, crap, crap." Sam levered them up and swung around, throwing Dean onto the couch. "_Shit_."

Hands going to his throat, Dean tried leaning back then rocked forward, the harsh sounds of his attempted inhales filled Sam's ears. Spinning on his heels, Sam ran through the library, heading to the kitchen, Dean's plea of, "Sahaam…myy…" wheezed out and followed Sam.

Skidding across the kitchen floor, Sam yanked open the first cupboard he got to, clearing the contents onto the floor before moving onto the next and doing the same. Frantically, he pulled drawers out and dumped them, searching through the contents as they clattered to the floor at his feet. "All the freaking crap he's got in this house and I can't find a goddamn paper bag?"

Finally, a broom closet yielded what Sam was looking for. The bag was long and narrow, for a liquor bottle, but it was going to have to do. Snatching the paper bag from between a mop and broom, Sam ran back to the library. He tripped over a few downed books and slid to his knees in front of the couch, beside Dean's legs. With one hand firmly around the back of Dean's neck, Sam used the other to shove the paper bag against his face. "Breathe in this, Dean. Just try to breathe normal."

Dean knew what was happening to him and fortunately had the right idea, was on the same page as Sam. Fingers winding over Sam's hand and the bag, Dean held it tightly to his face and puffed into it, drawing back as deeply as he could then blowing back into the bag. When he leaned forward and let his head drop between his knees, Sam rested one hand on his brother's back, the other still holding the bag with him. They sat there; the only sound in the room was Dean's harsh breathing, his back rhythmically expanding and contracting under Sam's hand.

"Sheesh, you sound like an obscene phone call." Sam tried for a joke, failing miserably when he couldn't keep his voice from trembling. Dean huffed an extra breath and smacked Sam's shoulder with the back of his free hand.

The few minutes it took for Dean's breathing to slow enough for him to breathe without the bag and sit straighter felt like a hundred years to Sam. Finally, some of the color came back to Dean's face, his lips back to pink instead of blue, his cheeks a pleasant flesh tone, not gray-white.

Very gently Dean pressed one hand to Sam's shoulder, moving him back a few inches. "Gimme some room." He panted in a voice barely more than a whisper.

Sam licked his lips, chewing on the bottom one and sat back on his heels, watching his brother. "Are you okay?" Sam's voice shook right along with his hands.

"Did you…get into…" Dean put the bag back in front of his mouth, flopped back against the couch and breathed a few more deep breaths into it. "It happened again?"

Sam nodded. "I didn't do it on purpose. I don't know what's happening to me or why I can do these things, and I don't like any of it."

Dean eyed him for a few minutes. "Did you see that…thing?"

"Yes and where you were."

"I take back what I said. I think you're on to something, Sammy."

Sam snorted and mumbled, "Sucks to be right." That earned him a weak smile from his brother.

"I thought you said it wouldn't attack if there was someone else in the room awake?"

"I'm sorry. It's my fault. I walked out, but I was only gone for two minutes."

Dean let the bag drop to the couch cushion, "Sammy, it's not your fault."

"It was just two minutes." The truth of it sank in completely, setting Sam's hands shaking and his nerves jumping. Half a minute longer, if he hadn't heard Dean fall, if he hadn't been able to see that _thing_, if…

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder and gave a shake. "Stop it, Sam." Dean said quietly. Meeting his gaze, Sam nodded tightly. "Now," Dean went on, "we need a plan."

Sam scooted across the floor and grabbed one of the books off the table, sitting beside Dean on the couch. "It says here that if there are repeated attacks to the same person, the victim can suffer heart failure from the intensity of the nightmares and die. I only left for two minutes, I swear."

This time there was no gentle shake. Dean's elbow dug into Sam's side, a stern prod. "Stop bitching and start planning." He crumpled the bag and tossed it onto one of the stacks of books now strewn across the floor. "'Cause I don't sleep till we have one."

"Dean, you can't stay up forever. What if it takes days? You can't go that long without sleep."

"The hell I can't."

"Now what the hell have you two been doing?" Bobby stood in the library doorway, arms folded over his chest looking plenty pissed off.

Taking the book from Sam's hands, Dean held it up and turned it so Bobby could see. "Apparently, I have a _friend_. It needs to be exterminated."

Bobby crossed the room and took the book, eyes skimming over the pages. "Nachtalb? Nasty looking critter."

"You should see it for real." Dean and Sam muttered together.

Gaze popping to them Bobby drew a deep breath. "Boys, this is bad, real bad."

"Yeah, Bobby, we got that part already." Dean grumbled.

"I found a banishing ritual, but it needs to be performed when the Nachtalb is actively feeding off its victim." Sam said.

Bobby nodded, "Most of these types of things are the same way. But, that can't be done because anyone else near the victim has a spell put on them to keep them asleep."

Sam focused on his knee, picking at the material of his jeans. "Except if your name is Sam Winchester."

Puffing a short laugh Bobby shook his head, "Yeah, right. Look, Sam, I know—"

"I saw it." Sam blurted out. He looked up at Bobby. "I saw it both times, earlier and just now. I saw it and it saw me."

Dean tapped Sam's arm, "Aw, go ahead, Sammy, and tell him the best part."

Bobby stood, glaring at them, making Sam have to consciously remember not to squirm. He wanted to run from the room and hide in the junk yard like he did when he was a kid and upset. Like he'd done a week or so ago, but he couldn't run and hide from this. Dean's life depended on him facing this odd ability head-on and finding a use for it.

"I got into Dean's nightmare."

Bobby stood blinking at him. He opened his mouth and closed it twice before dropping his head forward, took off his hat, scratched at his head and put the hat back on. "Huh?"

Sam drew in a deep breath, glancing over at Dean. How was he supposed to explain something he had no understanding of himself? He opened his mouth, but Dean's voice sprouted out.

"It seems Sammy here was able to get inside my head; or more to the point inside my nightmare and take an active part."

"Maybe something the Nachtalb does?" Bobby asked. "This ever happen to either of you before?"

"I think we'd remember." Dean grumbled.

"The Nachtalb is a solitary being, why would it draw me in?"

"Maybe Sam's not doing it, maybe it's you." Bobby motioned to Dean.

"Oh, no." Dean was on his feet in a flash. "No way. Just stop _right_ there."

"Admit it, Dean. You've always been way better at sniffing out supernatural stuff than me." Sam shut his mouth fast and cringed back against the couch when Dean spun around and glared at him.

Arm extended, Dean pointed at him, voice rising with each word, "You, Psychic Boy Wonder." He thumped his chest with his other hand, "Me, drives the car!" Quirking an eyebrow Dean silently challenged Sam to contradict him. Sam decided now maybe wasn't a good time.

"Whatever. Enough. Did you two have to wreck the house?" Bobby snapped.

Sam looked up sheepishly. "I needed a paper bag."

Dean bit down on his lip, shoulders shaking he turned away and covered his mouth. Bobby shook his head and looked from one to the other. "Get this mess cleaned up and quit screwing around. We've got work to do."

By the next morning, Sam remembered why Dean staying awake beyond when he should was a bad thing. They hadn't needed fire to keep that possessed bear away in Hungry Horse. Sam could have gotten them out a whole lot sooner if he'd simply kept Dean up past naptime. Big brother would have had possessed grizzly turning tail and running, bawling like a cub, in no time.

When Sam was overtired, he got clumsy and uncoordinated, silly and sort of giddy and as Dean often put it, became an overgrown toddler. It was true, but Sam would have sooner had his toenails ripped off than admit it. Dean, however, got ornery and cranky, and—Sam had to be honest—downright mean. His coordination wasn't the least affected—_the bastard_—nor was his mouth or vocabulary. In fact, those things seemed to advance in epic proportions.

Sam was seriously considering letting the Nachtalb have his brother and was feeling a bit sorry for the Nachtalb in the process.

Dean had done ornery, skated right through cranky and was definitely into the mean stage.

"Okay, so we have the incense part worked out. We can load up the fireplace with enough it should burn a good eight hours and light it up right before Dean gets to sleep." Bobby barely glanced out the window when the sound of tools crashing and Dean swearing floated through the window. "Apparently, he's going to try to insult the engine into working."

Snickering, Sam grinned, "I guess." The truth was, if the whole damn thing wasn't so serious, it'd be funny.

The back door slammed and heavy boot steps hit the floor, making Sam flinch and look up.

"How's it coming, we ready or what?" Dean snapped. He didn't even look at them, simply went straight to the refrigerator and starting digging through it.

"We're doing good. Still got a few more details of this ritual to work out since neither of us can be awake and in the room, but it still needs to be—" Sam stopped talking when the refrigerator door closed with enough force the appliance rattled back and forth.

"It's been damn near twenty-four hours! How much longer do we need?" Dean shouted. He yanked open a cupboard and pulled a coffee mug out then headed to the coffee pot.

"Trying to set up a ritual and have all the pieces in place so all I have to do is recite the incantation while that thing tries to chew your face off is turning out to be more of a challenge than I thought. I haven't slept either!" Sam shot back.

"Yeah? Well, you could if you wanted to. I'm not stopping you."

"Oh no, you just storm around here snarling and snapping and shouting at the wind." Sam shoved away from the chair, knocking it over. When he threw both arms out to his sides, the box of cereal and loaf of bread on the table were sent sailing. Blowing out a breath Sam dropped his chin to his chest and rubbed at his forehead.

"Sam, I'm sorry." Dean looked positively miserable. "Why is this dumb thing picking on me anyway? You've had nasty nightmares since you were this big," he held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "You're the psychic wonder, so why me?"

Letting the corners of his mouth twitch up to a small smile, Sam couldn't resist. "Maybe yours are better. You know, 'cause you're the first born and all?"

Dean glared.

Sam thought the ceiling was really interesting and was taking a good look at it.

"This is _not_ funny." Dean sent the coffee mug sailing. It arched nicely and completed its journey when it crashed into the coffee pot, shattering it into pieces. "Mother—I can't fix _that_."

Getting brave, Sam crossed the kitchen, about to put his hand on Dean's arm, "Dean, really, it's—"

"I'm sorry. Bobby, I'm…shit." Turning away from Sam, Dean brushed past him and snatched his jacket from the hooks along the back of the door. Viciously, Dean patted his pockets until he pulled out car keys.

When Sam made a grab for him, he lost his balance and nearly fell over. "Where are you going?"

The look Dean turned on him made Sam backpedal a step. "To get a new coffee pot."

"You shouldn't go out alone." Sam took a few steps forward, but the glare Dean turned on him made him stop. "Or, well…call if there's a problem."

Sam looked over at Bobby and sighed when the front door slammed. In the next instant, he heard the Impala's engine gun and could tell by how quickly the sound decreased Dean was heading down the long drive to the road at a pretty good clip.

"C'mon, Sam, he'll be fine. Do him good to get out for a bit. It'll do us all good. Let's get the rest of this set up and get this thing gone so your brother can get some sleep." Bobby looked sympathetic.

Nodding, Sam followed him from the kitchen and back to the library, arms loaded with books and supplies. They strung the needed herbs on lengths of twine. Sam stretched his arms as high over his head as possible and used a staple gun to attach the strands end to end, encircling the entire room. Standing back to admire his work, the entire room made Sam think they were some sort of bizarre party decorations. This was no party they were planning for, however.

Every few minutes, Sam couldn't help his gaze drifting to the door, even though he knew he'd hear the car long before Dean walked through it. It dawned on him this was the most he'd been separated from his brother since waking up freezing and confused in a muddy cemetery in Wyoming and he didn't really like it. Even a cranky Dean was strong and solid, anchoring Sam, giving him confidence with nothing more than his sheer presence.

Bobby's gaze followed Sam's every time. The man gave him kind smiles and knowing nods. Sam sensed Bobby understood far more than he ever let them see. He took another look around the room. "We'll need a way to monitor what's going on in here."

"I've got an idea for that. Be right back." Sam ran up the stairs to the room he shared with Dean, grabbing his laptop bag, pillows and blankets. Jogging back into the library, Sam dumped the pillows and blankets on the couch, propped one foot on the end and dug through his bag. Extracting a small webcam, he held it out for Bobby to see. "This needs a cable that will stretch from here to the kitchen."

Bobby nodded and took the small device. "I think I have what we need out in the tool shed. Be right back." He tossed Sam the webcam, grinned and headed out the door. He returned a few minutes later and sat down at the kitchen table, working quietly. Twenty minutes later, Bobby handed Sam a length of cable attached to the webcam. "Check it out. See if it works."

"Thanks." Sam hooked one end into his computer and walked backwards through to the library, setting the camera on a shelf. He went back to the kitchen and booted up his laptop. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet he pointed to the screen. "Watch there and tell me what you see."

Sam sprinted back to the library, stood in front of the webcam and waved.

"Gotcha! Good job, kid."

Grinning, Sam punched the air and chuckled when Bobby laughed. He went back to the kitchen, "Okay, now for the candles."

Bobby held up one finger and searched through a large drawer beside the sink. Pulling out small lamps with large Christmas bulbs screwed into the top to make them look like candles, Bobby turned and held them up for Sam to see, then handed two to him. "Here, we'll use these instead of real candles, that way no danger of fire and they won't be accidentally blown out. Put one at each compass point, due north and so on."

Heading back to the library, Bobby went to his desk and pulled two compasses from one of the drawers, handing one over to Sam. Sam nodded and quietly moved around the room. Using the compass as a guide, he placed the lights, taping them to the walls with duct tape. Next, they scrounged around for the necessary extension cords. Once the lamps were in place and each one tested to be sure the bulbs worked, Sam arranged the pillows and blankets he'd brought down earlier on the couch.

One final step remained. They carefully measured and centered the couch so Dean would be equal distances from all four of the lamps.

Stepping back, Sam surveyed the room. The pillows and blankets would assure his brother was comfortable. The rest would, hopefully, assure they banished the Nachtalb.

An hour later, Dean shouldered his way through the door, arms wrapped around a huge box. Grumbling, barely nodding to either Sam or Bobby, Dean stalked through the house and deposited the box onto the kitchen counter. He cleared away the broken mess of the deceased coffee pot then set about unpacking whatever it was he'd bought. Which must have had an engine since the box was at least four times the size needed for a coffee pot.

"What _is_ this?" Sam tried peering over Dean's shoulder. When he got his nose rapped hard, he pulled the instructions from the box. "Dean, this is sort of overkill, don't you think?"

When Dean turned his head far enough to look at Sam over his shoulder Sam swore Dean's eyes glowed and not in the reasonable possessed sort of way, more so in the frightening going to hurt someone sort of way. Sam took a step back, not wanting to be that someone.

"It's the best one I could find." Dean grumbled.

It took up at least two feet of counter space, Sam decided. There were tubes and slots and wires and hoses and three…_three_ dials. It had a place for beans to go in and grounds to come out, a funnel for milk or cream, another compartment for two types of sugar, two separate carafes and all in a gleaming silver frame.

"This thing makes espresso, Turkish coffee, lattes, frappes, tea, iced tea, iced coffee—" Dean finished hooking all the parts together.

"Does it make regular coffee?" Bobby asked.

Snorting, Dean leaned against the counter and crossed both arms over his chest, "Hell yeah it does. And it can be programmed to do it at anytime you want, just load it up and let it go. Shit, it probably can be programmed to clean your kitchen at three in the morning if you want."

"I don't want my kitchen cleaned at three in the morning."

Dean's eyebrows pulled together and his face turned stony. The glow was back as his eyes narrowed and focused on Bobby. He sort of growled. Sam looked from one to the other, thinking maybe he should crawl under the table to avoid the crossfire.

Pulling off his hat and scratching at the back of his head Bobby put it back on firmly, "But, you know, always nice to have options." Turning his back so Dean couldn't see him, Bobby rolled his eyes at Sam.

"Tell me we're ready, 'cause I'm dead on my feet and I seriously need a nap." Dean plugged the machine into the socket.

Bobby had skirted around Dean to examine the coffee machine. "This thing so much as twitches and I'm shooting it." After lingering a minute, Bobby opened a drawer and pulled something out. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, holding up a pair of scissors. "I need some of your hair."

"Ahh…I'll do that." Dean snatched the scissors from Bobby and clomped to the bathroom, grumbling and muttering about stupid ancient spells and why did they always involve dumb things like hair and fingernails and who thought this crap up anyway?

Still grumbling twenty minutes later, Dean stood in the library doorway and watched as Bobby and Sam divided the cuttings from Dean's head into small clumps and wove them into the strands of herbs.

"Could be worse, Dean," Sam grinned, feeling safe up on the ladder with most the room dividing he and Dean. "We could have needed pubic hair, not just any old hair off you."

"Pubic…ha!" Dean sputtered. "You're the one who'd have to play with it, not me."

Bobby roared with laughter. Sam tried stepping off the ladder, missed a rung and slid down ungracefully, landing with a thunk on his butt on the floor. Heaving a sigh, he reached behind him and planted both palms firmly on the ladder rungs, climbing painfully up until he was standing on both feet.

Snickering, Dean rubbed one hand over his face, "We need to do this before you seriously hurt yourself walking over the carpet or something."

Sam ignored his brother's jibes and retrieved the final two things they'd need. "I can't be in the room for the Nachtalb to show up, so I rigged up a webcam. I can watch from the kitchen." He nestled the small web camera on top of the books filling one of the many shelves. Carefully, Sam taped the cable Bobby had rigged up for him earlier from the camera along the wall and then to the floor so it wouldn't be pulled loose from his laptop.

"Here's the plan." Bobby looked from one to the other. "Sam can't do this running on fumes like he is and I can't be here to back you boys up or the thing won't show. Fortunately, as long as Sam and I are in the room and one of us is awake the Nachtalb won't show. So, here's what we figured, I'll sit here, make sure I stay awake and let Sam and you get a few hours of sleep. Three hours should be enough. I'll wake Sam up, we get the fire going with the incense, make sure it's burning good."

"We'll light up those lamps on the walls and I have to wear a string of herbs and your hair around my neck that matches what we have strung around the room." Sam held up the makeshift necklace. Dean grimaced, but didn't say a word. "Then Bobby leaves."

"No, hold on, what if something goes wrong?" Dean held up one hand and stood up, shoulders squared and body language screaming he was braced for an argument. "I can't back Sam up when I'm asleep. You've got to be here."

"That's why I'll have the alarm on my phone set. You boys got four hours to handle this on your own. After that, I come back and we find another way. I'm not going far, but each time it attacked Sam was in another room and I was out of the house, so I figure that's what we gotta do now. Anything goes wrong and I can be back here in minutes."

Sam swallowed and looked from one to the other, gaze settling somewhere over Dean's shoulder. "Then I go sit in the kitchen and watch from my computer. When it shows up, I do what I did before and grab onto you. That's when I got sucked into your nightmare, when I touched you, so I'm hoping that's the key. I do that and I get pulled in. I have the incantation memorized. I recite it and the Nachtalb is gone."

It was plain to Sam his brother not only didn't like the idea, he hated it, but they had no other alternative and were running out of time. There was only so long Dean could stay awake. Dean silently settled on the couch and Sam nestled down in the recliner. Bobby pulled a chair to one corner of the room and flipped open a newspaper.

Dean's breathing evened out and almost at once, he was asleep. Sam watched him, watched how his chest rose and fell easily, how the lines in his face smoothed out and his fists unclenched as his body relaxed into sleep. Sam's own eyelids were getting heavy and his body sank more deeply into the chair. The world gently faded away.

"Sam."

Something shook Sam's shoulder.

"Hey, Sam, come on kid, time to wake up." The voice was gruffer and slightly higher than Dean's.

"Hmm…Dean?" Sam's voice sounded raspy and thick to his ears.

"He's doing just fine. Time for me to go now."

Inhaling deeply and yawning, Sam pushed straighter in the chair and blinked at Bobby. The sun was going down and long shadows were inching over the room. Bobby moved away from the chair and started the fire. It crackled and popped for a few minutes and Sam watched as it finally caught and small flames grew and spread over the logs they'd laid earlier. The cheery licks of flame cleared away the thick haze coating his brain.

Sliding to the edge of the chair, Sam stretched his arms over his head and stood up, shaking his head to clear it. He silently paced the room, flicking on the small electric candle lamps. Lastly, he hung the circle of twine interwoven with herbs and Dean's hair over his neck.

Biting his lip, he stood beside the couch and gazed down at his sleeping brother. He barely glanced away when a hand came to rest softly on his shoulder.

"I'd better get going." Bobby's voice was soft and steady.

Sam nodded and drew in a deep breath. "I'll be all alone." He shivered, annoyed with himself for suddenly feeling so vulnerable and shaky.

Bobby nudged at Sam's arm until he turned around. "Sam, listen to me. I saw Dean after your daddy died, boy didn't shed more than a few tears. He loved your daddy, but he locked up and worked through things. And I saw him after you died. I watched him sit and cry…sometimes sobbing…for days. He was ready to give up his very soul, everything, for your life. He wasn't going to lock up and work through losing you, not ever. Someone loves you that damn much, Sam, you're never alone."

There was nothing Sam could do other than nod and swallow around the massive lump his throat had become.

He walked with Bobby to the door and closed it softly behind the man with a shaking hand. Walking silently through the house, Sam went to the kitchen and considered the coffee machine. Bobby was right; if the thing so much as twitched, it needed to be shot. It was frightening. Sam headed for the refrigerator and dug out a Coke.

Sitting at the table, he watched Dean sleep in the next room. He'd hear anything Dean might say in his sleep, but this way he might see signs long before he heard them.

It didn't take more than a minute and one shadow, darker than the rest, broke off from the natural ones in the room. This one shimmied and slithered across the floor and up the couch to sit on Dean's chest. The Nachtalb took shape, looking around the room for a minute. Apparently satisfied it was alone with its prey, it rubbed fat hands with odd long, skinny fingers attached together and smiled. The thing looked downright gleeful.

Sam froze, watching it on the computer screen. His own hands bunched to tight fists and he held his breath.

The Nachtalb leaned forward and put both hands palms down firmly against Dean's forehead. Nodding, it hummed softly and began rocking back and forth.

Rising slowly and quietly to his feet, Sam kept his eyes glued to the screen.

When the Nachtalb flickered and became more translucent than solid, Dean began muttering in his sleep. His face twitched, the muscle along his jaw jumped and his fingers convulsed a few times.

The part of the room where the couch sat was doused in a darker shadow than the rest.

Sam gave the computer screen one last look before he turned and strode from the room. "Show time."


	4. Chapter 4

**NOTE: **It has been mentioned to us elsewhere that the lenght of the posts make it hard to keep up on a daily basis. Because of this, we are considering drawing out the posting process, giving longer gaps between chapters and new episodes. Before we make such a change, we were just looking for feedback. Does the current posting schedule work for people? Or would you prefer it spaced out? Any feedback would be loved. Thanks!

PART FOUR

Sam moved through the house quietly, saying a silent prayer as he went that this plan worked. The two previous times, he'd run to Dean in a panic. There was no way to know if that was a key to them joining together in Dean's nightmare or not. Bobby had broached the question: was it he or Dean with this odd ability? Sam suspected it was him but had no way to know that for sure either. Maybe it was the both of them together.

Whatever it was, Sam sure hoped it worked now.

Crouching beside the couch, he laid one hand on his brother's arm, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, concentrating and focusing on Dean.

It didn't hit him as a shock and jolt this time, but was more of a slow leaking of electricity starting at his fingers and spiking through his arm to his shoulder and head. At first it was a barely noticeable tingling, but within seconds his entire arm and neck were on fire from the inside out, being stabbed and jolted with sharp sparks that originated somewhere under Sam's skin.

Sucking in a deep breath, he scrunched his eyes shut and Sam tried to remember to breathe. His jaw clenched tight despite his willing it not to. Powerful shocks rolled out from his shoulder. Pulsing in time with his heartbeat, they spread throughout his entire body, forcing muscles to clench and spasm so tightly the pain was excruciating.

Pulling air in through his nose and blowing it back out his mouth, Sam's fingers curled into a fist and gripped Dean's shirt with everything he had in him. Something was trying to push him away, force him to let go. The current rolling through him increased in voltage, the pulsing became a harsher, faster throbbing, then pounding along nerve pathways and causing muscle spasms from his toes up to his skull.

Sam's vision went white. His stomach lurched and he struggled to fill his lungs.

Shouting, he tipped forward, instinct had him throwing both hands out in front of him to break his fall. When his palms hit cold, slimy mud and his knees slid a few inches, Sam opened his eyes fast. He stayed there for a minute, gulping in deep breaths and waiting for the fire that was his body to quiet.

Sliding one leg through the mud, Sam got one foot underneath him and slowly pushed away from the ground, looking around. He didn't really have to pay much attention to the details of the place; he'd been here long enough and returned via Dean's subconscious enough times to know where everything was.

Cold Oak.

He was back in Cold Oak.

"Dean?"

The previous two times he'd appeared in his brother's dreams Dean had known Sam was there with him, sensed if not actually seen him. They'd interacted with one another. It was possible Dean would be actively looking for him now.

A crash made him turn and he got a rather good view of himself being punched in the face by Jake. Punched and flung off the ground into a fence, smashing right on through. A dull throb set up in his jaw and pain lanced through his upper back. Yeah, that had hurt, and he remembered thinking at the time he'd never be able to get off the ground.

Somehow he had. He staggered to his feet and met Jake head on. Sam watched as he and Jake fought, Sam eventually winning out. Except Sam really hadn't won, but lost.

He heard Dean's voice before seeing him. Watched his dream image turn to the sound of his brother's voice, an act as natural and necessary as breathing as far as Sam was concerned. That day, he hadn't really understood the absolute terror in Dean's face as he and Bobby ran at Sam. Sam was so happy to see Dean, to know that Yellow Eyes hadn't killed him while Sam was in the diner, or the expression on Dean's face alone might have been warning enough. The odd quality of Dean's voice ripped at Sam's heart. It was the same quality he'd heard in the voice of a man once trying to stop his toddler from running into traffic. That type of sound in a voice was something Sam never forgot. It made his heart stutter and his gut wrench.

Sam remembered the initial sting along his lower back and how it flared to a burning white pain that wrapped around his entire body. He hadn't seen Jake, of course, but now he watched as Jake came up behind him, saw the glint of the blade and the reason for the terror in Dean's face and voice.

Unable to move, Sam stood and helplessly watched as his dream image was knifed in the back. A dark shadow hovered beside Jake for a few seconds. Pain sliced through Sam's back making him stumble forward a few steps and clamp his lips tightly shut against the sob wanting out. He reached around without thinking and put his hand to his back, pulling it away and looking at it. There was no blood covering his palm. The sharp pain of a few seconds ago evaporated.

Mesmerized, Sam watched as Dean slid to the ground, catching him before he fell, face first, into the mud. Sam remembered trying so desperately to look at Dean. He remembered how his legs became cold in a matter of seconds, the cold spreading up to numb his brain. He heard Dean's words begging Sam not to give up, to stay with him and not leave him alone. The memory of how desperately Sam wanted to oblige his brother flooded his brain.

Grief so strong it was paralyzing washed over Sam as he watched the scene between his brother and himself. In here, in Dean's dream, Sam watched as the shadow that had been near Jake slithered along and circled them. Sam could almost see the sheer desolation rolling off Dean. He certainly felt it, felt how his brother was broken in those few seconds, felt how everything that mattered to Dean was gone. Worst of all, Sam felt how Dean closed up and retreated into himself, nothing of Dean's drive or caring survived. Dean's body may have lived, but his soul died right along with Sam.

A shudder ran through Sam. Jerking forward on stiff legs that didn't want to listen to the commands his brain sent, Sam staggered to where Dean knelt in the mud holding his lifeless brother in his arms. Legs folding, Sam hit hard on his knees, bits of mud splattering up to pelt his hands and face.

"Dean, I'm not dead. I'm here. We have to—" Reaching out Sam tried grasping Dean's shoulder and getting his attention. Instead of being able to actually feel his brother's solid muscle beneath his hand, his fingers skimmed right through.

Sam stared at his hand. In the previous two dream encounters when he and Dean were together they were able to communicate and touch each other. Sam had grabbed Dean's hand and literally pulled him out of the first nightmare.

This wasn't Dean. It was truly _his_ nightmare and Sam was a spectator as if he was watching a movie. He needed to find Dean and find him fast. The shadow that was near dream Dean flitted away. Sam watched it until it almost melted into the horizon before he got himself up and moving, jogging after the shadow. Lengthening his stride, Sam started running, trying to keep up somehow, knowing this path would eventually lead him to Dean.

The muddy street of Cold Oak melted away and Sam found himself standing at a crossroads. His back ached and his head felt as if it was encased in some fuzzy haze as he stepped carefully along the roadside to the very center.

Dean was with a woman, begging her, pleading with her. Sam barely recognized his voice it was sad and desperate, his eyes rimmed red and puffy. His face was heavy with stubble and still streaked with tear stains. Smudges of dirt outlined Dean's cheeks. Dark purple blotches were skin deep smears under his eyes. He obviously hadn't slept or showered. Sam doubted he'd eaten and by the slight sway in his gait decided Dean had probably been drinking more whiskey than anyone should.

Unable to hear their words, simply the sound of Dean's voice, how it cracked, Sam watched his brother's body language. Broken, sad, out of options: all those came across loud and clear to Sam.

The deserted country roads near Cold Oak melted away, morphing into a forest. The trees were only beginning to bud so the dingy gray overcast sky was easily seen through spindly branches. A slight breeze still damp from earlier rains, Sam supposed, ruffled through the branches. Sam's boots crunched over dead grass and leaves left over from the autumn before.

Crackling filtered through the forest, drawing Sam to it, even though he was pretty sure he knew what it was already. His feet wouldn't stop; barely slowed down. He didn't want to see what he knew was ahead, yet was powerless to stop himself.

Forging ahead, Sam pushed through the branches, shoving them away from his face only to have some snag on the sleeve of his jacket. He stopped and stared; wanting desperately to avert his eyes, to run away, but was unable to do so. This was possibly even worse than seeing himself as a baby with Azazel dripping blood into his mouth or watching his mother slip up the wall to the ceiling.

Dean stood beside a pyre staring down at the wrapped body laid on top. He reached out with one shaking hand and let it rest lovingly against where a cheek would be under the material. Dean's face shimmered in the dim light; his free hand reached up and brushed away the moisture coursing in rivulets down his cheeks. Sam watched as Dean stood there, not knowing how much time passed until Dean finally put flame to the pyre and took a few steps back.

As the flames lapped higher, Dean sank to his knees, hands covering his face, entire frame shaking as he openly and unabashedly wept.

Sam swallowed, trying to force his throat clear, but it was impossible. Staggering backwards, Sam's spine connected with a tree. It was difficult to breathe, his lungs feeling hot and closed, his throat constricted around what felt like liquid fire instead of flesh and spit.

Dried grass and dead, decaying leaves smoldered, ignited and turned to flames shooting up in front of him. Gasping, he jerked to the side, trying to get away from the fire. The odor of burning cotton and flesh reached his nose. Popping and snapping from the flames hitting moisture filled his ears along with the harsh sounds of Dean's sobs.

The hem of his jeans burst into flames, fire climbed his legs, searing heat enveloping his legs then hips. Chest heaving, lungs fighting through the heat for air, Sam battled for every breath he drew. Tears from the pain of breathing pooled in his eyes and spilled over. The flames from the pyre reached higher, curled over the body and flowed along its length.

Sam jumped to the side, shaking his arms furiously in a futile attempt to quell the blaze shooting along his arms and about to cover and consume his face. Stumbling, he fell and tried to roll to put the flames out. His back burned white hot from the inside, his spine singed from a killer's knife and now the rest of him was burning from the outside.

Getting to his knees, Sam swatted at the flames but that only fueled them and made them grow. He was on fire. The air around him was too hot to breathe, his throat charred, his heart a hard, hot ember firing the rest of his chest from the inside. Pitching forward onto his hands, Sam coughed, choked. He tried calling out in hopes that Dean would hear him this time but his voice dissolved into hacks and rib-splitting coughs. Moving one arm in a vain effort to shove away from the ground, Sam watched as the flames skimmed over the land, following him.

His jacket was tugged on, pulling it away from his body enough he could get his knees more steadily under him and strong fingers wrapped around his shoulders, levering him farther away from the ground. The hands on his shoulders shifted quickly to under his shoulders and hefted him to his feet. One hand released him and beat away the flames on his back. Cussing and swearing accompanied the actions.

An arm wrapped around his chest and yanked back, pulling him away from the pyre. "Christ, Sam, you weren't supposed to catch on fire."

Sam turned and stumbled into Dean, grabbing his arms to steady himself. The flames vanished leaving Sam's clothes whole, his skin un-burnt and his lungs able to draw in a breath.

"You all right?" Dean brushed off Sam's shoulders and looked him up and down.

Sam nodded. "The fire? That was…"

"My worst nightmare, remember?" Dean's gaze shifted to the scene of himself beside Sam's funeral pyre. "And that's all it is now, a bad, bad memory." He patted Sam's shoulder. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I am now."

Dean smirked. "Let's find that little bastard and smoke his ass."

"Sounds good to me."

When Sam turned, he and Dean were back in the streets of Cold Oak, watching as Jake loomed up behind Sam, knife slicing through the air in front of him about to connect with Sam's spinal cord. Turning, Sam looked behind them where he knew Dean would be coming from. "There." He pointed to a dark splotch careening behind the image of Dean in this nightmare.

"This is freaky." Dean stared at himself and Bobby racing to Sam, and as always, getting there too late.

Before Sam could answer, they were standing near the Hell's Gate. A dark patch crept around their feet then darted away.

"Howdy, boys." A voice literally boomed through the air.

Glancing at one another, Sam realized Dean knew as well as he did what was coming next. They turned to face their father. Thrown off balance when the ground heaved and bucked, Sam threw one arm out and pressed against Dean's shoulder to steady himself. Dean glared at the thing wearing their father's familiar face, all except the glowing yellow eyes.

Just as he'd done the night they'd actually witnessed the opening of the Gate and what came out, Dean slid in front of Sam. When John cocked his head to one side and chuckled, walking casually to the right, Dean again sidestepped, putting himself between Sam and John. It was the same always, Dean standing between Sam and a threat. One of the clearest memories Sam had of that night was Dean's automatic and unconditional acceptance that Sam was indeed Sam. He'd stood solid between Sam and everyone, keeping his confused and disoriented brother clear of anyone or anything bent on harming him.

"Gotcha!" Dean snarled and in two long strides went right by John. He pounced on the dark spot as it hovered near the Gate, flattening it between himself and the ground with a loud _oommfffff_. "Sammy, I got it. Now!"

Making sure to keep John in his sights, Sam began reciting the incantation.

The cemetery dissipated and in its place was a dark, dank cave. Words faltering, Sam looked around. He was alone. Moisture trickled along the walls of the cave and light from somewhere flickered along the floor and ceiling. Footsteps, two sets, one sounded like Dean's and a second set from something _big_, came at him through the darkness.

Dean burst into the cave, on his heels a Wendigo. Sam had exactly a second to suck in a breath and try to move before the thing lunged forward, snatched Dean off the ground and threw him into the wall hard enough he bounced when he hit the ground.

How or why Dean was even able to move after the attack was beyond Sam, but he was. Blowing out large puffs of air, Dean's face scrunched up, his neck corded tight and his jaw line went white when he rolled over. Grunting, he pulled his arms and legs under him and stood on wobbly feet, facing the monster bearing down on him.

"NO!" Sam's shrieks were too late.

Snatching Dean off the ground and holding him above his head, the Wendigo threw him to the rocky cave floor, Dean's body flopping like a rag doll. Sam rushed forward, trying to reach his brother, only to be shoved back and to the hard ground. Scrambling to his feet, he charged again, but it was too late.

Long, thin claws ripped through Dean's middle like a hot knife through butter. Back arching, Dean screamed then was silenced when another swipe of the massive talons opened his chest. Blood spurted out, forced out high and fast, covering Dean's face as well as Sam's. It bubbled up from his chest, pumping dark and turning sluggish before oozing down his sides and running in two lines on either side of Dean's body.

Half-running and half-falling across the cave, Sam dropped down beside Dean. "This can't…no…this _never_ happened." He tried convincing himself Dean was alive and well and asleep on Bobby's couch. This was a dream, not reality. The despair and grief that welled up and filled every bit of Sam's being simply wouldn't listen. He bit back a sob, shook his head and angrily wiped tears from his eyes. The second he tried to take hold of his brother, his hands slipped right through.

Cackling off to the right made Sam turn and look. The Nachtalb jumped up and down near the cave entrance, clapping its hands together and chattering all while its tail whooshed around in big circles.

When it turned and danced closer to the entrance, Dean appeared, blocking its way. "Not so fast. This ain't gonna work."

The Nachtalb scampered away from Dean and closer to Sam, cackling and chirping, it looked absolutely delighted. Running after it, Dean jumped at it when it started climbing one wall, curled his body around it, dropped to the ground and bellowed, "Sam, start talking!"

Again, Sam began speaking the ritual words he'd memorized earlier that day. He'd barely gotten off a few lines when the Nachtalb wriggled partially loose from Dean's grasp, pulled back far enough from him it could take a few swings and hissed.

Sam nearly choked on the words and had to swallow down a laugh watching Dean try to wrangle the thing. The Nachtalb morphed into a huge wolf, fangs dripping, eyes glowing, its stance upright. Not a wolf—a werewolf. It dropped down on Dean, teeth snapping inches from his face. Dean's hands latched onto the thick fur around its neck, shouting wordlessly as he fought to keep his arms straight and the fangs away from his head.

"I don't think so." Sam shouted and charged, hitting the werewolf with his shoulder and full force of his body weight. It swayed for a few seconds then tumbled clear of Dean.

Hand banging against Sam's leg, Dean groaned, "Help me up."

Reaching down, Sam grabbed Dean's hand and hauled him to his feet. "It's gone again," he grumbled.

"Yeah, I don't—" Dean huffed a sigh when they once again stood in the streets of Cold Oak. "No offence, Sammy, but watching you die is getting old."

"No kidding." Sam glanced sideways at his brother. "Time to quit being nice."

"Damn straight." Holding his hand over his eyebrows, Dean turned a complete three sixty and scanned the area. "Well, you and Jake are about to appear right over there, so I say let's stop chasing the little weasel and let him come to us."

A second later, as predicted, Sam and Jake appeared. Jake swung, connecting with dream Sam's jaw with a loud thud sending dream Sam flying into and then through a wooden fence. Again.

Dean winced. "Oh, dude, that hurts."

"Tell me about it." Sam rubbed his jaw, memory of the superhuman hit and accompanying pain still fresh and clear. A few minutes later Jake was down and appeared to be out, Sam turning to the sound of Dean's voice.

"Nice moves."

"Thanks," Sam grinned then nudged Dean's side and pointed. "There it is."

"You ready?"

Sam nodded, turning away when Jake crept up behind Sam's dream image, knife in hand. The Nachtalb bounced around in the area between Sam's dream image and those of Dean and Bobby.

"Got him." Dean growled low and dangerous and sprinted away from Sam, this time tackling the Nachtalb with such force they slid a few feet along the muddy ground.

Sam hooked his fingers through the herb and hair strands around his neck and began reciting. Jake slammed the knife into Sam's dream image's back. Sam didn't have to see it to know it happened. He felt the skin along his back tear, muscles and tendons ripped from bone igniting a liquid fire in his veins that spread down his legs, up his back and along his arms.

Bitterness rose up his throat and filled his mouth making him gag on his words. He was dimly aware of Dean and the Nachtalb wrestling a few feet away. The Nachtalb nearly got away but Dean rolled, pinning it to the ground.

Sam's ears rang and the sound of rushing blood and his own heartbeat filled his skull. Legs losing all power, his knees folded and Sam dropped to the ground, pitching forward on both hands. Burning, paralyzing cold coursed down from the small of his back, filling his legs. His lungs expanded, trying to get more air, but at once, Sam felt as if there was water rushing into them.

He watched with a morbid fascination as thin threads of spit dripped to the ground. Something foul smelling crawled through his nose coming up from somewhere in his chest, stinging the sensitive tissue. His entire body felt like it was shutting down, vision graying out, his upper half consumed with white-hot sparks of pain rolling through in steady waves. Below the waist was a block of ice. Vomit rose up, burning a slow path from his stomach, igniting every bit of his throat before dribbling out.

Dean was shouting, but Sam couldn't make out if there were words being spoken or not. The Nachtalb, now unable to break free of Dean's grip, had worked its tail loose and was slamming it repeatedly into Dean's neck and shoulders. Small slices opened with each strike and Sam saw enough to see how the cuts bubbled with something thick, brown and putrid then welted to dark angry, red gashes.

Pushing up on one hand, Sam used the other to wipe spit and vomit from his mouth. He looked up through stringy, dangling bangs but didn't bother brushing them aside. He didn't have to shout the words to the incantation. He simply had to say them.

His voice didn't want to work; his throat felt wooden and splintered. Agony laced the movements of his lips as he began again. Mouthing each word carefully, Sam forced the whispered words over his tongue and out his lips.

Getting to his feet, taking the Nachtalb with him, Dean got both arms under its shoulders and lifted up. Hollering, he ran them at the closest tree and smashed the Nachtalb into it. Through graying, swimming vision, Sam watched the Nachtalb slide down the tree and sprawl on the ground. It got to its feet, swaying forward, claws out and aimed at Dean's knees.

Taking a step back, Dean kicked out, catching the Nachtalb's middle. Following it, he reached down and hauled it to its feet with his left hand, cranking back his right and delivering one fast, sure punch.

Sam's throat unlocked, his voice getting stronger. The words came out louder and he was able to straighten the upper half of his body.

Dean hit the Nachtalb again. This time it was the one flying and landing hard on the ground.

Feeling rushed back to Sam's legs. His knees and feet were no longer colder than ice but tingled with thousands of pinpricks. A test wiggle of his toes gave him the confidence to try standing. Easing off the ground, Sam kept talking, his voice getting louder and stronger with every breath.

Each inhale came easier. The Nachtalb grew thinner and thinner, skin fading from solid to translucent. Dean stepped forward and kicked, sending it spiraling away to land sprawled on the ground.

Shaking his arms, Sam straightened to his full height and rolled his shoulders. The fire flying through him extinguished leaving him as quickly as it'd begun. Moving fast, Sam made his way to his brother's side. Speaking the final words of the incantation, he took the strand of herbs and hair and pulled it off, tossing it onto the downed Nachtalb.

The small creature faded away to nothing.

They looked around. Other than them, the place was deserted.

"We're still in Cold Oak." Dean observed.

"You need to wake up." As soon as the words left Sam's mouth, Dean vanished. "Dean? What the—"

The ground beneath him turned from slippery mud to old Oriental rug. The streets of Cold Oak swayed and shimmered for a few seconds then gave way to the walls and books of Bobby's library.

Hands gripped either side of Sam's face and turned him. "You okay?" Dean peered at him.

"Ye-yeah, yes, I think so." He grabbed hold of Dean's shoulders. "Your neck, you were all cut up and something brown was coming out of the wounds." He turned Dean to one side then the other. Nowhere was his skin so much as bruised, let alone opened and oozing goo.

"Distractions." Dean yawned once then yawned again. "Shit, Sam, I can't keep my eyes—"

Sam swayed and stumbled after Dean when he stepped away from the couch. "Me too…" Vaguely Sam registered the fact his words slurred out and that the floor was coming up fast while the room grew fainter, going from colors to grays to completely black.

-o-

Bobby took the front steps to his house two at a time and shoved open the front door, shouting Dean's and Sam's names as he went. He tripped over a lamp lying across the floor. "Damn, what the hell? Nearly broke a leg." When his foot crunched over glass, he stopped and took a good look around.

The house was in shambles. Nothing remained on the shelves or in closets or cupboards. Furniture was upturned and thrown about, some upended and some pieces broken completely in two. "Damn kid must have needed another paper bag."

Shoving a clear path with the side of his foot, Bobby went for the library. The couch was empty. Inside the fireplace, the fire still crackled and burned, sending cheery laps of light flickering over the entire room and emitting a pleasant scent from the incense. Bobby sucked in a breath when he saw a booted foot sticking out from between the fireplace wall and a set of shelves. Afraid to look and needing to rush there faster than he could, Bobby finally got to that part of the room, pulled up short and stood with hands on hips staring down. "Well, I'll be damned."

Dean's shoulders and head leaned against the wall, his legs stretched in front of him in a V; head turned to one side and slightly dipped toward his shoulder. One arm was across Sam's shoulders and the other lay on the floor beside his thigh. Sam was sprawled on his stomach, head resting on Dean's chest, one arm slung over his brother's middle.

They were breathing softly and steadily. One of them was snoring quietly.

Bobby knelt beside them, gently shaking Dean's shoulder. "Boys. You sleep here, you're both going to be sore as hell when you wake up."

His only response was Dean snuffling and Sam's foot jerking side to side.

"Well I sure as hell am not carrying either of your asses to a bed. Stay there then, if you want to so damn badly." He turned to face the kitchen. The only thing left on the counters was the coffee machine. It might have been the only thing besides him left standing in the entire house. Pointing at it, he stalked over the mess, "I'm coming in there and making coffee and if you so much as twitch I'll shoot you."

A couple of hours later, Bobby was still picking up the kitchen. It'd taken him that long to find the coffee filters. Standing in the middle of the room, he held a filter near his hip, faced down the coffee machine and snarled out, "Draw!"

Chuckling behind him made him turn.

"Well, aren't you proud, beating a coffee machine with your fast draw of—" Dean leaned to one side, "a paper filter."

"How you feeling, boy?"

Dean smiled and nodded, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I feel good. Really good in fact. How long have you been back?"

"A few hours. You two were sound asleep when I got here."

"I feel like I slept for about a day. And I mean really slept."

"No nightmares?"

"Nope."

"None at all?" Sam appeared behind Dean. He looked around the room and offered Bobby a sheepish smile. "There's a few busted windows upstairs. We'll…uh…"

"Oh, you're damn straight you will. And you'll both get this house put back together." Bobby snorted and dumped beans into the coffee machine. "What are these stupid little packets for?"

Dean elbowed him aside, "I'll make the coffee. Sammy, how about you get us some take out…and garbage bags."

"On it." Sam headed toward the door, stopped and turned back to them. "Hey, Bobby, thanks."

"Git." Bobby snapped and ducked his head before Sam saw his lips curling into a smile. He twisted around and pointed at Dean, "And you, hurry up with that."

Sam jogged to the door, and Dean busied himself with the coffee machine, whistling low under his breath.

Bobby righted the kitchen table and pulled a chair over and settled into it, for once able to simply enjoy having his boys around and underfoot.

**End**


End file.
